


i would walk into the depths of hell (if it meant that i could have you back)

by JPuzzle



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cerberus!Pauna, Clarke paints, Eurydice!Lexa, F/F, Grief, Hades!A.L.I.E, Happy Ending, I swear this will have a happy ending, Orpheus!Clarke, Persephone!Jaha, Rage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-27 15:50:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6290593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JPuzzle/pseuds/JPuzzle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is mad with grief as she brings her brush to unyielding stone. She paints them; those she has failed, betrayed, killed or hurt. She paints them alive and rejoices. She paints them dead and despairs. She is altering this lifeless world.</p><p>Or: Clarke is Orpheus, Lexa is Eurydice, the CoL is the Underworld and this will have a happy ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got prompted on tumblr. Being a mythology and classics nerd, it was like catnip. I am so sorry. This is primarily angst.There will be a happy ending. As this is sci fi, expect some of the myth to be twisted to fit the purposes of this fic. It will follow the majority of the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice but not all of it. I’m not Jason, I can’t kill her twice. I own nothing. 
> 
> As always, mad props and deepest thanks to popper for looking over this, you’re a legend. 
> 
> Thanks go to decalexas for the prompt.

_ Doubt not 'tis wrath divine that plagues thee thus, _

_ Nor light the debt thou payest; 'tis Orpheus' self, _

_ Orpheus unhappy by no fault of his, _

_ So fates prevent not, fans thy penal fires, _

_ Yet madly raging for his ravished bride. _

_ She in her haste to shun thy hot pursuit _

_ Along the stream, saw not the coming death, _

_ Where at her feet kept ward upon the bank _

_ In the tall grass a monstrous water-snake. _

 

**_Translation from Virgil’s Georgics_ **

**_Book IV: Lines 453-527_ **

**_Orpheus and Eurydice_ **

 

*****************

 

The ride back to Arkadia is slow, they're on horseback and Clarke can’t bring herself to move in haste; it is a funeral procession and she is the chief mourner. No one else will know. No one else, that is, apart from Murphy. 

She barely registers or cares how much time is passing. 

What's the point?

Everyone she loves  **dies.**

They burned her before they'd left Polis and Clarke felt like a part of herself had been immolated in the flames alongside her.

Titus ( _viper, betrayer)_ had pulled her aside and pushed something into her hands. She remembers looking down in bewilderment before the realisation that she was holding strands of _Lexa's_ hair, braided and soft, had left her breathless and choking on the silent wail leaving her lips, burning her throat.

She had traded for a leather cord and pouch before she left Polis. The last of her love held safe and tight, close to her heart.

Clarke had almost vomited when Titus had tried to explain the significance, had almost flew at him in rage and despair. It is worse, she thinks, that she feels so defeated. Killing him would not bring her back. Killing him would not assuage the screaming in her head, the tightness in her chest or the void in her heart. 

How could she have not seen this coming?

She is, after all,  _ Wanheda  _ and the Commander of Death can only reap what she sows.

Murphy won't stop staring at her, won't stop sending her furtive glances of concern. Clarke liked him better when he was an asshole. At least then she would have been left alone. She wouldn't have been forced to eat the food he keeps pushing at her or wake from her dreams of Lexa in the morning. When did the lines start to blur so heavily? Nothing is ever as it seems. 

Octavia is irritated that they'd delayed for a  _ funeral _ . She's frustrated that Clarke won't move faster than a snail's pace. She keeps insisting they need to go back, that they need to get there quickly.

Clarke wants to scratch her eyes out. 

She's already blind to what's in front of her, why not make it literal?

Each time Octavia had pushed, Murphy had silenced her with a sarcastic remark or a rebuff. Clarke can't bring herself to feel grateful. She can't really bring herself to feel anything aside from the grief gnawing away at her.

So they plod along. They camp. Clarke supposes it has been days. The trees are thinning and she doesn't think it'll be long before they get back to Arkadia. Maybe less than an hour.

She's dreading it. 

She's dreading seeing her mother, seeing Kane, seeing Raven, seeing Monty, Jasper and the rest of the remaining hundred. 

Most of all she's dreading seeing Bellamy. 

She doesn't know what she'll do if,  _ when, _ she sees him.

The thought terrifies her. 

She has enough blood on her hands.

(She can't wash away the feeling of black blood seeping through her fingers, the desperation of keeping her alive. She can't leave, Clarke had said someday, she'd meant it,  how _ dare _ she d-)

Every time they pass running water, Clarke makes a point to dismount and walk unsteadily down to the stream; makes a point to  _ scrub _ at her hands until they're red, raw and bleeding. She scrubs until Murphy gently pulls her away from the running water and makes sarcastic commentary about the trees and mutated animals, until he sits her down and treats her hands, until she's back on her horse and  _ safe.  _

Safe from herself, she supposes. 

She's going mad, she's sure of it.

She can't bring herself to care.

If sanity is hurt, is pain, she would rather be mad. She would rather be turned to stone than have to feel a tenth of what she's feeling.

 

*** 

 

They reach the gates at midday, the whining creak of metal jolts and jars her. This place is so unlike Polis that it barely seems real. It is sterile and lifeless - the thrum of people going about their daily business is lacking here. Here, there is a quiet sort of desperation, a confusion that buries itself deep into the foundations of the metal structure and latches onto its people. Here there is the artificial hum of the Ark and its generators, the roaring of the rovers they found. 

Everything on the ground is so utterly alien to them. 

She finds the notion contemptible, she finds these people contemptible.

Clarke wonders when they stopped being her people.

She wonders when they started to look like aliens to her. 

Her mother is waiting at the gates, a broad smile on her lips and worry creasing her brow. She looks relieved to see her safe and whole.

_ If only she knew. _

Abby crosses the distance between them and wrapping her up in a desperate hug. Clarke flinches at the contact, the pit in her stomach deepening. She hears Octavia explaining why they were delayed, hears it muffled through the fabric of her mother's clothes. 

She hears the silence that follows, heavy and oppressive. 

She hears the jubilation in the gathering crowd and wants to murder them all.

She hears the cheers that spread through the camp.

She wrenches herself away from her mother's embrace. All of a sudden, everything is too much. She is angry, she is grieving, she is drowning and people are  _ cheering. _

Her chest feels tight, she can’t breathe.

She  _ aches _ , she feels like her heart is about to rip out of her chest, she hurts.

Her throat is closing up and all she wants to do is rage and scream until she’s hoarse. 

And then she sees  **him** . She sees him approach them with a broad smile on his face. He’s a pantomime of the friend she thought she once had. That he should celebrate her love’s demise. 

It’s  _ perverse. _

The betrayal stings at her, claws at her until she feels something fundamental break inside herself. 

**She is death.**

**She is a wild animal, furious at the loss of her mate.**

**She is mad.**

**She will kill him.**

She launches herself at him, her hands outstretched as she roars her grief, her fury, her betrayal. She has an outlet now. She will  **kill** this man. She will kill him for his stupidity, for his part in the murder of three hundred innocents, for his betrayal, for his loyalty to a man that caused ripples and aftershocks and lost her Lexa. Her fingers wrap around his throat and her grip tightens. His eyes bulge as he tries to force air into his lungs and his fingers scrabble at the fabric of her shirt in an attempt to get her off him. She stays where she is. She is carved from marble; no mortal will move her alone. 

Her mind is a whirl. 

_ Jus drein jus daun. _

She deserves this. There must be retribution. Death must pay for death and she must be the one who administers it.

She has never felt like  _ Wanheda  _ has fit as much as it does in this moment. 

Her lips curl into a snarl, her teeth bared and her eyes wild as she watches him slowly turn red and then purple. Her fingernails bruise and cut crescent shaped marks into his skin. Clarke watches his pulse hammer at this throat in perverse satisfaction.

For a moment, she feels alive again.

She feels hands gripping at her shoulders, trying to pull her off. She hears, through the pounding in her ears, the tumult in the camp.

None of it matters.

She doesn’t register the prick of the needle as it goes into her neck but she sees Bellamy’s face swim and blur as everything goes dark. 

She tries to fight it.

She hears Lexa’s voice calling to her like siren song.

  
She succumbs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fucked me up. I am deeply sorry if it fucked you all up too. :( Orpheus’ (Clarke’s) grief is part of the story - written into every iteration of the mythology that I know. I’m drawing from Virgil, Ovid and slightly from Apollonius. I’m also drawing from my own inexhaustible library of mythology books, uni studies and the interwebs.
> 
> Let me reiterate that this will have a happy ending. 
> 
> The next chapter should be out tomorrow or the day after depending on where you are in the world. 
> 
> If anyone wants to talk about mythology, has any concrit or wants to talk clexa, I’m on tumblr as jixorpuzzle.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke wakes and finds she’s restrained to a bed. She is not happy. Abby can barely look her in the eye, Murphy is amazingly not being an asshole and Jaha comes to talk to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Hopefully I haven’t put any of you off. Batten down the hatches, it may be rough sailing for a while. Let me reiterate that this will have a happy ending. I’m not using the whole myth. I will not kill her twice, I am not Jason. Fuck that guy. I don’t own anything. 
> 
> As always, deepest thanks and mad props to Popper for all the concrit, you made this 100% more awesome. Cheers :)
> 
> Thanks go to decalexas for the prompt - I cannot stop writing this.

_ When long his loss the Thracian had deplor'd, _

_ Not by superior Pow'rs to be restor'd; _

_ Inflam'd by love, and urg'd by deep despair, _

_ He leaves the realms of light, and upper air; _

_ Daring to tread the dark Tenarian road, _

 

**_Excerpt from Ovid’s Metamorphoses_ **

**_Book X: Orpheus and Eurydice_ **

**_Translation by Sir Samuel Garth, John Dryden et al_ **

 

**_*****************_ **

  
  


Clarke wakes and cannot move. Her heart thunders in her chest as her eyes snap open and she scans her surroundings. Every instinct in her body is screaming that she’s in danger. She looks down and realises why she can’t move. They’ve strapped her to a bed in the medbay. 

_ They consider her a threat to herself; they consider her a threat to the populace of Arkadia. _

_ (She is.) _

She snarls in fury, in despair. 

Isn’t it enough that they cheer for her love’s demise?

Isn’t it enough that they walk around alive and whole?

They treat her like a wild, half-mad beast, to be caged and tamed before she can be released back into the world. 

She hears the scrape of metal against the metal and turns her head towards the sound. She sees her mother sitting in a chair by her bedside, staring at her implacably. Clarke’s eyes widen and her lips twist into a sneer. She struggles against her binds, desperate to be free of them, desperate to get out of this place. She screams wordlessly. 

She hears her mother call for Jackson, hears her demand a sedative,  feels firm hands push her straining shoulders down, sees the needle and watches as the world blurs and recedes.

_ She hears Lexa calling for her. _

Clarke wakes again in darkness, her mother is sleeping in the chair next to her bed. It’s late and she doesn’t care. She stares at the ceiling of the medbay, she feels drained of life, of emotion. She feels hollow and does not care. She feels full and aches. She is a walking dichotomy. She is grief, she is rage, she is madness, she is death personified. She is  _ strapped _ to a fucking bed.

She blinks slowly, her gaze never wavering from the ceiling, the slow, steady inhale and exhale of breath compliment the constant thud of her heart and the grating hum of the Ark. 

She had never noticed it before.

She had never noticed just how  _ unnatural  _ this place was until she had left it.

Until she had spent her months alone in the woods and her weeks in Polis with Lexa.

Her mind rebels against the thought of _Lexa_ bleeding out in her arms. Tears come unbidden and trail down her cheeks. It is like stabbing at a deep wound. She oozes blood constantly. Thinking about her turns the trickle into a torrent.

She is used to bloodshed. 

She is becoming used to despair.

She hears a noise and turns her head. Murphy is hovering uncertainly at the medbay’s entrance. 

She snorts softly. 

He’s such an arrogant bastard.

Clarke has never seen Murphy uncertain. 

It’s unsettling.

She knows she must be mad if she makes  _ Murphy _ hesitate.

She quirks an eyebrow at him and juts out her chin in challenge, daring him to come closer. 

He shuffles into the room and shoots a wary glance at the sleeping form of Abby before coming to sit at the foot of her bed. 

They do not speak. 

If they do, they’ll wake her mother and besides Clarke doesn’t want to speak and hasn’t since Polis.

Not since they burned her. 

She thinks that Lexa may have taken her voice with her when she died.

She has nothing nice to say anyway.

Her words would be barbed, would be angry and full of grief.

Better to be silent, better to be the mad girl, strapped to the bed snarling and sneering at anyone who comes close to her.

She pauses for a moment.

She has not tried to attack Murphy. She does not see the need to. He knows. He has seen, he witnessed what they were to each other. What they  **are** . There is comfort in that. It is miniscule but it is there. She feels him move his hand tentatively to her knee and squeezes gently; he’s offering comfort but she barely feels it.

She feels completely numb.

Her chest feels hollow.

Her chest feels like someone has operated and taken her organs without anaesthesia.

She closes her eyes and allows sleep to claim her. 

_ She dreams of Lexa’s smile. _

  
  


***

 

She wakes in daylight to the low murmur of voices near her. She keeps her eyes shut tight as she tenses and wonders if they’ve come to lock her away.

The windows in the containment room are clear and anyone who walks past could come and stare at the mad girl who was once their unofficial leader.

If they do lock her away, they should charge admission. 

She will be the warning to their children, their monster under the bed.

**She commands death and it drove her mad.**

**She tried for peace and look what happened.**

She tries to pick out the hushed and agitated voices. 

She recognises Murphy.

She recognises her mother.

She recognises -  _ wait, _ is that  _ Jaha?  _

Clarke opens her eyes in disbelief and the artificial light blinds her temporarily. Why on _earth_ would Jaha visit her. She _hates_ him. She remembers a time when the list of people she despised was short and now she has so many names; names enough to fill a book. 

_ She needs to get out of this fucking bed. _

_ She needs to get out of this camp. _

The sound of her tugging against her restraints silences the hushed conversation. She hears footsteps and sees her mother gazing at her worriedly, sees Murphy, his gaze flickering nervously at her and then away. She sees Jaha and he looks so serene that she wonders what the hell he’s been taking.

Her mother speaks, her clinical tone the epitome of professional doctor, “We’re providing you with nutrients intravenously, you’re safe and the council is debating and discussing what will happen to you. Your clothes are safe, all sharp objects have been taken from you and Mr. Murphy demanded that you keep whatever that-,” she gestures towards the leather cord around her neck, the pouch heavy and comforting against Clarke’s breastbone “whatever that is. He doesn’t think that you’ll use it to hurt yourself.”

The idea is absurd. Use Lexa to hurt herself? The last piece of her lost love? She didn’t realise Murphy was so perceptive. Nothing is ever as it seems.

She stays silent, fixing her gaze on the wall opposite her. Her mother can barely look at her and she’s okay with that. 

Her thoughts dwell on Lexa.

How she smiled, how Clarke had traced her skin, how respectful she was, how she understood and how she never pushed.

Love and deep despair well up in her and she feels half-mad again.

She can hear something; a grating, hoarse noise. It sounds like a motor dying. She wants it to stop. She realises that it’s coming from her. She realises that she’s sobbing and she wants to curl into a ball. She can’t.

The thought galvanises her and she looks directly at Jaha and bares her teeth like a rabid animal. If she could, she would attack this man. He killed her father. He is on her list.

**She is Wanheda. She will have her retribution.**

Jaha smiles at her serenely and it’s as if she’s greeted him as a friend. 

Maybe she’s not insane after all. 

Maybe the world has gone mad.

Her mother clears her throat and Clarke’s gaze focuses back on her. “Thelonious would like to speak to you in private. I need your word that you won’t attempt anything.”

Clarke’s eyebrows raise infinitesimally.

_ How the fuck can she do anything? _

_ She’s strapped to a fucking bed.  _

The sound of Murphy laughing takes the tension out of the room. 

Abby relaxes and tells Jaha that he has five minutes. He nods serenely. Her mother takes her leave and Murphy, ignoring the pointed look from Jaha, crosses his arms and stays close by Clarke’s side. 

Jaha smiles down at Clarke like a shepherd looking at his lost flock. 

If she could, she’d hit him.

Jaha drags the metal chair close to her bedside and sits. He begins to talk about a City of Light and living forever. He tells her that despair does not exist in this place, that rage has no hold over it. That everyone she knows and loves will be there. 

Clarke’s eyes widen in fury, her body straining against the bonds keeping her immobile. 

How  _ dare _ he speak of her father?

How _dare_ he speak of Wells?

How  _ dare _ he speak of Finn?

**_How dare he speak of Lexa._ **

He gazes down at her, his expression has not changed. He does not regard her as a threat.

And then he speaks and she stops, her body going rigid at his words - 

“What if you could have her back? What if you could _bring_ her back?”

There is no choice. 

It’s not even a question.

She would do whatever she had to. 

She would give  _ anything _ for a lifetime with Lexa, alone and unbothered by politics or the concerns of others.

She would  _ do _ anything.

She looks at him squarely in the eye and nods.

He unbuckles one of her wrists and stretches out his hand.

There’s a strange chip nestled in the center of his palm.

She takes it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So um. It’s probably tomorrow somewhere in the world, right? I’m drawing from Virgil, Ovid and very vaguely from Apollonius of Rhodes as well as miscellaneous mythology books, uni stuff and the interwebs. Any concrit is always welcome. Hit me up on tumblr if you want to talk about mythology or clexa - jixorpuzzle.
> 
> Updates may slow from this point to once a week. I’ll be writing this and my crackfic in tandem to balance out the angst. We'll see.
> 
> Thanks for reading :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke wakes in a strange place. She sees familiar faces. She paints. A bargain is struck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of the comments! They were lovely and keep me smiling at night. Thanks for all the wonderful feedback! Are we all ready because things are about to get weird. Down the rabbit hole we go. As usual let me again state: I am only using part of the myth, this will have a happy ending. I am not Jason, I cannot kill her twice. I don't own anything. 
> 
> Everlasting thanks and mad props to popper for looking over fics and talking about them with me. You're a legend among women. 
> 
> Much thanks and deep appreciation go to decalexas for this prompt. It is giving me life.

_When Thracian Orpheus, the poet of Rhodope, had mourned for her, greatly, in the upper world, he dared to go down to Styx, through the gate of Taenarus, also, to see if he might not move the dead._

_  
_ _Through the weightless throng, and the ghosts that had received proper burial, he came to Persephone, and the lord of the shadows, he who rules the joyless kingdom._

 

**Excerpt from Ovid's Metamorphoses**

**Book X: Orpheus and Eurydice**

**Translation by A.S. Kline**

 

**_*****************_ **

 

The chip worms its way slowly down her throat. There is something unnatural to the way that it sticks and burns as it goes down. She can almost feel it hook in with invisible tendrils, feels it latch on and dig at her. Her vision becomes brighter, her hearing sharpens and Clarke wonders if she's being altered somehow.

She closes her eyes and begins to see something.

She opens her eyes and sees a panicked Murphy calling for her mother. She sees Jaha rebuckle her wrist and pat her almost paternally on the shoulder.

She feels ill.

She feels her eyelids flutter shut and everything recedes.

_She doesn't hear Lexa._

_It terrifies her._

She wakes slowly, groggily on cold concrete. There is a stiffness in her legs and an ache in her back that cannot be mimicked. She can feel something in her hand, thin and wooden. She opens her eyes and looks down.

_A paintbrush?_

She pushes herself up with her hands firm against cool pavement. The wooden handle of the paintbrush digs into the flesh of her palm as she stands, shakily.

_She is standing at the entrance of a metropolis._

This place is not familiar. She does not know where she is. It is unlike Polis and unlike Arkadia. This place is not a ruin but a city. She has seen such places in the film archives back on the Ark. _This should not be here._

She remembers Jaha, remembers what he said.

_What if you could bring her back?_

She would do anything. She would go to any length.  She would enter any territory, no matter how strange, no matter how alien.

Anything is better than this endless lament.

She takes a breath, allows the thought of Lexa to galvanise her and enters the city, clutching at the paintbrush like a lifeline.

The city is empty, lifeless. _Silent._

She is left to her own thoughts. This place, laughably called a _city_ is sterile, stark. There is no one here. No one but her and her ghosts.

She hadn’t noticed, not at first. She’d seen movement out of the corner of her eye and paid no attention. She’d paid it no mind until she’d turned and _seen them._

They are hers. Her ghosts. They are an army numbering in the hundreds - perhaps _thousands_ and they are _hers._ It would only be fitting, she thinks, for the Commander of Death to traverse a lifeless city with an army of ghosts at her back. She accepts this almost rationally. Until she sees the ones closest to her. The ones that show little fear of her. The ones that look at her with acceptance, with  grudging respect and the ones that look at her with love in their eyes.

She breaks.

She sinks to her knees.

She screams and screams and it sounds like a dirge. It is a lament for her ghosts; it is a lament for all she has lost.

Her ghosts stand by her, they encircle her. They are silent, watchful.

Her father. Her father is leading them. He looks as he did when they floated him.

_How can her father be here?_

She looks up, counts them, remembers them, remembers how they lived and how they died.

Wells, who loved her and had never betrayed her, Wells who had allowed himself be blamed for something he had no part in.

Anya, shot trying to make peace at Clarke’s pleading.

Charlotte, who she could’ve taught to do better, to do right. Charlotte who had _stabbed her best friend._

Gustus, holding his poisoned chalice, staring at her with mournful eyes. Gustus who had tried to protect her love, had tried to protect her from the outsiders that Clarke had once called _her people._

_He was right._

She feels her heart rip from her chest, she feels it tear open.

She knows who stands nearest to her.

She doesn’t want to look, doesn’t want to see him.

To see him would be to shatter like glass against concrete.

She must. She loved him. She is responsible for his demise. She is responsible for his ruin.

She must face him.  

He stares at her and holds no accusation in his gaze - only love. His chest is stained with blood. The boy who tried to save the girl he loved. The boy who slaughtered a village full of innocent people. Finn, whom she loved regardless of his actions. Finn who had inadvertently lead her to Lexa. Finn who would have done anything to protect her.

_Stupid, lovesick, headstrong boy._

She sobs until she cannot. She shakes until she feels the chill seep into her bones.

They are her army, they are her ghosts.

This is her penance.

Clarke stares down at the paintbrush in her hand. She will paint them all. She will paint until she has captured them all, captured them in life and captured them in their last moments.

She will sing their funeral dirge and they will follow her into battle.

She finds a building; it is stark, sterile and made from white marble.

She is mad with grief as she brings her brush to unyielding stone.

She paints them; those she has failed, betrayed, killed or hurt.  

She paints them vibrant in colour, she paints them in monochrome.

She paints them alive and rejoices.

She paints them dead and despairs.

Clarke wanders this perfect city, she paints every surface she can find. She weeps, she grieves; every brushstroke invokes memory or emotion.

It bleeds into the stones, into the pavement.

She sees vibrancy slowly return.

_She is altering this lifeless world._

Clarke had forgotten what it was to create rather than to destroy. She had forgotten the power of art; had forgotten that art brings resurrection, brings redemption, brings death and disgrace.

She is _Wanheda_ \- Commander of Death. She is Clarke - Skaikru Ambassador and healer.

She is two sides of the same coin.

She paints and it strengthens her.

She paints and it sustains her.

Her footsteps echo as she walks on, an army of ghosts at her back.

_They solidify with every brushstroke._

Clarke walks for hours, for days. She doesn’t know how much time has passed. Nothing changes in this world, there is no day night cycle.

In the distance she sees a curved building towering over the silent metropolis. She sees the winding stone steps that lead to it.

She has painted every building she has walked by, painted the pavement she walks on. She will paint her love on this monstrosity. She will paint her twenty feet high for all in this Godforsaken world to see.

_She takes the steps two at a time._

She holds her paintbrush high - it is her weapon and her rallying cry.

The dead march behind her.

_Kom War._

 

_***_

 

She stops at the pavilion and sees a raised dais and beyond, the smooth surface of the skyscraper.

Clarke stops in her tracks.

She feels the shock seep into her.

There are _people_ here.

A woman in a deep red dress stands on the dais, a step above Jaha. There is something fundamentally wrong in the way she holds herself.

_She is not human._

_She is in charge._

Clarke approaches, she is cautious, curious.

Jaha stares down at her, a benevolent smile on his lips as he spreads his arms out wide in welcome.

He is not the one to speak.

_This is not his Kingdom._

The woman in red tilts her head to the side. Her eyes flick to the paintbrush raised over Clarke's head before she meets her gaze.

She smiles and Clarke feels deeply unsettled.

“Clarke. Ambassador for Skaikru. Mountain Slayer. Wanheda. Beloved of Lexa kom Trikru, Heda. Be welcome in the City of Light, I am A.L.I.E.”

Every word is followed by an exaggerated tilt of her head and Clarke represses the urge to back away.

 _“_ We have watched your progress. Your art. Humans express emotion through painting. Thelonious has explained this to me and I have searched my databases. I do not understand. There was perfection in my world. It was clean.”

Her voice is not right. There is a metallic tinge beneath her tone. Clarke's instincts are screaming at her, telling her to kill this construct or to flee.

_She does neither._

She considers the woman for a moment and speaks, her voice creaking and grating from disuse.

“Let me show you.”

A.L.I.E. tilts her head and waves her hand in acquiescence. Her body does not move, she is still.

She is a machine. Clarke tries to think. Perfection is difficult to paint. This being would not understand the perfection in flaws.

But beauty? Yes, she can paint that.

She will paint Lexa in a way that this being can understand.

She kneels and brings her brush to the concrete expanse. She paints in binary; in a precise pattern of zeroes and ones that form words and pictures. She paints her love in code. She paints her and makes sure that her plea is written, her grief and her rage, her love and her despair. She paints their story and cannot stem the silent tears trickling down her face or the deep ache in her chest.

_She paints a masterpiece._

When she is finally finished, she stands and  stares mutely at A.L.I.E., Clarke feels drained, numb and hollow. The woman in red pays no attention to her. Her eyes are locked onto the painting at her feet.

Clarke’s eyes flick to Jaha and notes the tears unashamedly running down his face.

“You come to beg me for her resurrection. This place is not what you assume. Your father is here because he died. He died and I took him from the cold vacuum of space. I took him because of his importance to you. I took Lexa because she is important to the overarching design. You fascinate me, Clarke. Make no mistake, you are important, as important as the one you paint.”

Clarke arches an eyebrow. There is arrogance to this creature and she feels the bile in her stomach churn with each metallic resonant word.

“I will grant you what you crave. There is a back door to this place. I will give you direction. You may take her and _only_ her.”

A.L.I.E. tilts her head and all expression slides from her face. Clarke sees for the first time a hardness and a malevolence that was well masked.

_She has underestimated this being._

“I have one condition. This world is unlike yours. She is still recovering her memory of her life. You will not disturb that process. You will not tell her who you are until you leave this place. If she remembers, our deal is void.”

Clarke feels the knife twist and burn. She said that she would do _anything._ This is the cost. She sidesteps her masterpiece and vomits. The bile burns at her throat as she uses the back of her hand to wipe her mouth.

She would do _anything._

She meets A.L.I.E.’s lifeless eyes, sets her jaw and nods.

_The bargain is struck._

She follows the woman in red through an alleyway and steps, inexplicably, into a grove. There are children training, their backs firmly to Clarke. She sees the long, braided brown hair. She sees who is teaching them.

Her heart leaps into her throat and her chest twists and aches.

A.L.I.E. smiles and calls out in greeting.

_Lexa turns in response._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we're not in Kansas anymore.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading and if anyone wants to discuss mythology with me or talk clexa or has any concrit- I'm on tumblr as jixorpuzzle.
> 
> Updates may slow to once a week as I'm writing this in conjunction with my crack fic. It may be fortnightly, we'll see.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke and Lexa walk and talk. Clarke is sad. Lexa is suspicious. A wild pauna appears! A wild pauna uses Roar! It is super effective!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so. One more chapter after this and we're all done. The next and last chapter will be out in the next half an hour or so. I feel the need to reiterate that this will have a happy ending. I am not Jason, I won't kill her twice. I also won't bait and switch you, I'm not a sadist. I don't own.
> 
> As always, mad props and deepest thanks go to popper for checking over this sadfest.
> 
> Much thanks to decalexas for the prompt.

_Why, Death's very home and holy of holies was shaken_

_To hear that song, and the Furies with steel-blue snakes entwined_

_In their tresses; the watch-dog Cerberus gaped open his triple mouth;_

_Ixion's wheel stopped dead from whirling in the wind._

_And now he's avoided every pitfall of the homeward path,_

_And Eurydice, regained, is nearing the upper air_

 

**_Excerpt from Virgil's Georgics_ **

**_Book IV: Lines 450 - 503_ **

**_Orpheus and Eurydice_ **

**_Translation by C. Day Lewis_ **

 

*********************

 

Lexa keeps glancing at her as they make the trek back to the desolate city. Clarke doesn’t blame her. She is a stranger. She feels a sharp stab of pain lance through her and pierce her heart. She holds her paintbrush tight to her chest.

_Lexa does not remember her._

She thinks that she is an Ambassador from another nation, she thinks that she’s escorting Clarke to Polis to discuss terms. Lexa apologised and had told her that in a recent training session she had hit her head - that she was still having trouble recovering her memories. Clarke had forced a friendly smile to her lips and suppressed the scream bubbling up her throat.

The fabrication was accepted with suspicion. But when she had agreed, when Lexa had looked around, she had not known which direction to go. A.L.I.E. had smiled then - the curve of her lips mocking as she’d stared past Lexa and looked directly at Clarke. Clarke had noted the spark of sadism in otherwise lifeless eyes. She had underestimated this _thing_ greatly. How could a construct understand love? How could a machine understand emotion as anything other than human weakness.

_Love is weakness, Clarke._

Lexa has been the epitome of diplomatic courtesy - the velvet glove hiding the iron fist. Everything that she has said has been carefully weighed.

_Clarke feels sick to her stomach._

Her love cares little for her in this twisted reality.

_She can feel her heart splinter._

She supposes that it takes a machine to compile and realise ways to torture humans.

Lexa talks of Polis and her advisers. She hopes that Clarke will enjoy her city and her people. She speaks of the alliance between the twelve clans. She does not speak of Costia or the _Azgeda._ Clarke knows better than to push.

_Clarke doesn’t speak of her people. She’s not sure she has people anymore. To discuss them would feel disingenuous._

She catches Lexa staring at her paintbrush more than once. It is not broached until they run out of small talk and talk of nations and alliances.

“Forgive me, Clarke. You hold your paint brush as I hold my sword. Your choice of weapon is strange. Your people are artisans?”

Clarke feels her cheeks pull and she registers with shock that she’s _smiling._ The idea of her mother, of _Kane_ or Raven or _Octavia_ brandishing a paint brush is absurd.

She clears her throat and shakes her head.

“My people are not artists, Heda. My people are-”

_Clarke falters. She cannot tell Lexa that she thinks of her people. Her people are cruel. Her people are outsiders, invaders who take and demand and refuse to listen._

She allows the conversation to trail off and they trek through the wooded expanse. A.L.I.E. had given her directions and warned her that the path may be littered with dangers. The construct had smiled; cold dread had filled Clarke and settled in the pit of her stomach.

She feels Lexa’s eyes bore into into her as they continue on through the undergrowth. They are filled with suspicion, with distrust. Her knuckles are white as she grips her sword. Lexa knows that Clarke is hiding something. How could she not? The lie is flimsy at best and exacerbated by the terrain. She knows they are not going to Polis and she is playing the long game. Lexa’s hand has not left the hilt of her sword since they left the grove.

_Lexa expects an attack._

_Lexa doesn’t trust her._

_She will confront Clarke. She will do it soon._

Clarke feels the iron grip of her love’s hand spin her around. Lexa is furious, she is done being diplomatic. “Who _are_ you? Assassin? _Azgeda?_ You are not an Ambassador, Clarke.”

Clarke nearly chokes on the bitter laughter bubbling out of her. No, she isn't an Ambassador.

_Not anymore._

She sighs and squares her shoulders. “No,” she says simply “I'm not, I'm an artist, a warrior and a _fisa."_

Lexa’s eyebrows arch in disbelief.

“You have no sword, you have no medicine, all you have is a paint brush and I won't walk another step until you tell me _who you are.”_

She doesn't know what to do. If she tells Lexa the truth, tells her everything, A.L.I.E. will rip her from Clarke. She couldn't handle losing her. She can't lose her again.

She feels the sweat begin to bead on her brow, her hands begin to shake, her chest tightens and she _cannot lose Lexa again._

Clarke feels her legs give out. Everything is too bright and too loud and she can't breathe. She's going to lose Lexa again and she can't breathe.

She hears Lexa walk towards her, sees her boots stop in front of her. Clarke can feel the rough, wooden handle of the paintbrush  in her fingers and hear the rustle of the leaves in the trees. Lexa kneels down slowly next to her, sitting on her haunches as she gazes at Clarke carefully. She makes no attempt to touch or make any sudden movements.

Lexa’s green eyes flick to her blue as she licks her lips and says, carefully and calmly. “There is a slight breeze, Clarke. Can you feel it against your skin? Can you feel the paint brush in your grasp? Feel how the wood is rough. Can you feel your clothes brush against you? Are they soft or rough?”

Slowly, as Lexa continues her litany of quiet questions and as Clarke pays attention to her surroundings, she feels her chest ease and her hands steady. She will lie. She will do anything.

She slowly comes back to herself and forces a smile to her lips. She feels like cracked glass inside, brittle and edged.

They camp there for hours and Clarke watches the sky. She hates the constancy of this place. It is not perfection but mundanity.

_She sleeps, Lexa keeps watch._

_Memories invade her dreams and tug at her consciousness._

She wakes to Lexa staring at her contemplatively.

“You can't tell me who you are. But you are not a threat. You need to take me somewhere and the woman who came with you-” Lexa's forehead furrows in confusion “I know her, I feel like I shouldn't, that I'm supposed to know her but I don't and you seem _so familiar_ but I cannot remember you.”

Clarke slumps in relief. She has not lost her, not yet. She can't tell Lexa who _she_ is but A.L.I.E. had never said anything about telling Lexa of this place or their destination.

_A loophole._

_She will take the risk._

“This world, this city is not where I'm from. It's not where you're from,” Clarke feels like she's dangerously close to skirting the truth. “I was sent to bring you back. I'm an artist, a warrior and a healer. We have to find a door. We have to step through it. But I _need_ you not to ask anymore questions. I need you to not push.”

_She needs her to stay ignorant. She needs her to forget._

_“Please, Lexa.”_

Lexa considers her silently, weighing her words and her body language before she nods once, stands and offers Clarke her hand.

She grips it.

_She feels something click back into place._

They jerk, an ear-splitting roar echoes through the forest. It is angry, it is bestial and it is coming ever closer. Lexa is tightens her grip on Clarke's hand, her eyes wide in panic as she breathes “ _Pauna, Clarke. Run.”_

Clarke feels dizzy with deja vu and panic as she sees the gigantic gorilla crash into the clearing.

_They run, hands entwined._

 

****

 

They sprint over a hillock, panting as the roar of the Pauna fades into the distance. They walk onto concrete. This ‘city’ is disjointed - the forest skips into the city without break.

Lexa does not notice.

Her ghosts return to her and her love does not see them. Her silent army watches as they both make stilted conversation and furtive glances at the other. Clarke feels exposed. She wonders what her spectres would say if they could talk.

They trudge through the painted streets and byways. Lexa is staring intently at every detail, every figure. She's frowning but she keeps her word. She says nothing other than noting the beauty of a brush stroke or the way an expression has been captured before moving on.

They walk in silence and Clarke doesn't know what to say. Everything she can think of is linked to a memory of Lexa and Lexa cannot remember.

Eventually, on the outskirts of the City, they encounter a strange steel tower. The door is old, its hinges are rusty and the handle is stiff from disuse.

She takes Lexa’s hand and clutches it like a lifeline.She feels Lexa’s fingertips squeeze gently. Clarke takes a steadying breath and meets her love’s green gaze. There is something there, something that has not been throughout their trek - a softness. She thinks Lexa _knows,_ thinks that she might _remember_. Clarke dare not speak the thought aloud, it panics her and fills her with terror. She dare not give it credence, not while they are in this place.

_In this hell._

Her fingers curl around the steel handle of the door, she twists the knob and slowly pulls the door open.

_They walk through._

Clarke wakes and feels the weight of a hand grasping hers.

_Her heart swells._

She opens her eyes. Her stomach plummets and her heart cleaves in two.

_Lexa is not here._

_Clarke is back in the medbay - she's strapped to the bed._

_Her mother is holding her hand._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone has any concrit or wants to talk clexa or mythology hit me up on tumblr - jixorpuzzle
> 
> Thanks for reading :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke deals with the aftermath of her actions. Murphy walks with her. Things are resolved and there are happy endings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nd we're all done! Thank you for joining me on this wild ride. Let me reiterate that in this chapter, there is a happy ending. I have not killed her twice. We see this from Clarke’s point of view. Lexa is okay. She is fine. There will be a happy ending. My name is not Jason. I don't own anything. Off we go :)
> 
> Lastly, deepest thanks, mad props and eternal gratitude to popper who has checked this over, has encouraged this and let me ramble about this sadfest to my heart’s content. Legend among women.
> 
> Much gratitude to decalexas for the prompt, it's a fabulous one and I don't think I've written this much in ten years. Seriously, thank you for the inspiration.

_Hear me, O Death, whose empire unconfin'd,_

_Extends to mortal tribes of ev'ry kind._

_On thee, the portion of our time depends,_

_Whose absence lengthens life, whose presence ends._

_Thy sleep perpetual bursts the vivid folds,_

_By which the soul, attracting body holds:_

_Common to all of ev'ry sex and age,_

_For nought escapes thy all-destructive rage;_

_Not youth itself thy clemency can gain,_

_Vig'rous and strong, by thee untimely slain._

_In thee, the end of nature's works is known,_

_In thee, all judgment is absolv'd alone:_

_No suppliant arts thy dreadful rage controul,_

_No vows revoke the purpose of thy soul;_

_O blessed pow'r regard my ardent pray'r,_

_And human life to age abundant spare._

 

**_Orphic Hymn 87_ **

**_To Death (Thanatos)  
_ **

**_Translation by Thomas Taylor_ **

 

*********************

 

In the end, they release her from the medbay. There is nothing physically wrong with her and they need the beds. But they are not convinced of her stability. _Clarke knows she isn’t stable._ She can’t quite bring herself to care. She’s so exhausted. She is broken and hollow. She has no fight left - not for bureaucracy and politics. _Not for life._ She just wants to leave this place.  The City of Light was some kind of perverse dream - a trick. She has lost Lexa again and she cannot bring herself to feel anything.

To feel emotion is to be weak - to love, doubly so. A.L.I.E. was right in her mocking  derision.

The council is not convinced that she won’t try to _murder_ one of the citizens of Arkadia. They cannot kill her. They do not put her in the containment cell - it is too public and she is _Wanheda_. Even here, Clarke is a legend. To lock her away publicly would be to inflame the populace.  

She has become a _problem_.

In the end, they do what they did to her on the Ark. They lock her away in a steel box. They confine her to her own company for twenty two hours out of twenty four. They tell her she is too dangerous, they tell her they have no intention of releasing her. They want her where they can keep an eye on her.

If Clarke could summon the emotion or the energy, she would wipe them all from the earth.

They are not _monsters,_ they insist _\- she should be grateful. They are allowing her to live._

She will be grateful when she can leave this place.

She will be grateful when she never has to see these aliens again.

They release her for an hour a day. They allow her to walk the boundary with Murphy as her guard. They know that she won’t attack him. Murphy is the only one who can understand - at least a little. She is allowed few visitors and only for an hour at a time. The list consists of her mother, Kane and Murphy. No one else wants to see her, not after Bellamy. She can’t help but curl her lip in disgust as she thinks of him.

_He is a hero to them._

_He is a murderer._

_He is kept well out of her way when she is allowed to roam the perimeter._

Murphy visits her regularly. He brings her charcoal, food and sarcasm. She does not speak. She cannot look at anyone these days. Everything she sees is filtered through dull monochrome. She is hollow inside - hollow and so very broken. It has been two weeks since the City of Light and almost three since Polis. She had spent the hours in her metal prison sketching on every surface that she could with the broken bits of charcoal that Murphy brings her. She draws Lexa. She panics sometimes. She’s terrified that one day her face will fade from memory. She knows that she will never be released these four walls - so she draws on them in defiance.

She spends her time recreating the line of Lexa’s jaw, her smile and her green, green eyes.

She sketches them with love and mutely traces her fingertips against precise lines and subtle shading in the dark of night. She can’t cry anymore. She has forgotten how.

The door to her cell opens -  it’s mid afternoon and her allotted exercise period. Murphy hovers outside of her door. His arms are crossed as he jerks his head towards the exit and asks her if she’s coming. She trails after him dully and ignores the stares and the vitriol that follow her footsteps.

_It has been two weeks and Clarke does not care about the accusation in their eyes or the abuse that dogs her. Nothing matters anymore. Not when she has lost her love._

They slowly make their way around perimeter of the Ark. Clarke slows and dawdles, her fingers brush against the cold metallic surface of the wall. She hates the feel of the smooth metal against her fingertips and she despises the way that it penetrates the ground and blocks the view of the trees beyond.

Clarke has not seen a tree in two weeks.

Arkadia reminds her of A.L.I.E. - of her coldness and her ‘perfect’ city. Clarke is surrounded by bad memories and resentment. She wants to leave this place and never return.

Murphy stops, he is looking at something just out of her view. Clarke turns and notices the gathering crowd at the gates. She sees Kane and her mother rushing towards the guard post barking orders as they go. The crowd is so silent. Shouldn’t there be noise? The guards have their guns trained on someone. Curiosity tugs at her and even Murphy can’t resist a closer look. They walk to the gates, cautious to stay on the periphery. Clarke’s presence would not be welcome here. She would be locked up immediately if they caught her so close to so many people.

The gates open and the crowd is _so_ silent.

Clarke shuffles closer, she tries to see.

She glimpses a flash of brown hair, sees a woman in black clothing. She begins to see the brilliance of colour. She lets herself feel and allows herself to hope.

She feels her heart pounding in her chest and a sob tear from her as she forces her way through the crowd. She ignores Murphy calling after her, she ignores her mother and Kane yelling at the guards to stand down. She doesn’t care if they lock her up for this. She doesn’t care if they throw away the key.  She thinks that she might be hallucinating. She isn’t that mad, surely. She hasn't consumed jobi nuts. She hears a voice and she’s shoving past people, stumbling and sobbing.

She _knows_ that voice.

She breaks from the crowd and sees _her._

She is dressed as she was when Clarke last saw her in Polis. She is dressed as she was when she died. There is no trace of the Commander. This is _Lexa_ . Clarke steps forward in hesitance. Lexa has not moved and her green, green eyes that Clarke has been trying to capture for _two weeks_ are fixed on Clarke’s.

_She doesn’t trust that this is real. Love is weakness._

She tries to say something, tries to open her mouth and say _anything_ but all she can do is launch herself at her love and sink with her to the ground, shaking. _God, she’s real._ Clarke can touch her. _She’s not mad and Lexa is real and alive and warm in her arms._ She clings to her and they stay like that for a long while, resting their foreheads together in an unabashed display of intimacy that would’ve shocked her two weeks ago. They are oblivious to their audience and to the whispers that begin to rise and hiss around them. Two weeks is a lifetime and Clarke doesn’t care anymore. They can all go float themselves. This is _Lexa._

When Clarke finds her voice - it’s like turning the key to a rusty lock, it has been in disuse for so long that it creaks and groans as she forces out a whisper “I thought I’d left you in that place. In that city-” her heart clenches as she stumbles over the words “I thought I’d lost you again.”

She feels Lexa smile against her cheek and tightens her hold. She never, ever wants to let this woman go.

“I am sorry, Clarke. I woke up on an island. It took weeks to reach Arkadia safely. I had to avoid scouts, hunters, traders. I had to avoid my people.”

She feels long, thin fingers hesitantly brush against her elbow. “I cannot return to Polis, Clarke. To do so would mean my death or the current Commander’s. She will not suffer a challenge and for me to live is challenge enough.”

Her voice lowers, soft and sad. “I don't want to die. Not again. I can still remember-”

Lexa shudders and Clarke buries her face into the crook of her neck and holds her love close and safe.

_Clarke is shielding her from the guns and the guards. She won't lose Lexa. Not to a gun, not to an accident. Not ever, not again._

***

The council decides that Lexa cannot stay in Arkadia. She is, _was,_ Heda. It would be the diplomatic equivalent of throwing an incendiary onto rocket fuel. Lexa refuses to leave Clarke. They are at an impasse. There is negotiation and Lexa’s name is added to the list of permitted visitors to Clarke's cell. There has been progress and perhaps a solution. Clarke’s imprisonment and Lexa's presence has caused tension in the camp. Incarcerated or free - in Arkadia, Clarke creates problems.

_A decision is made._

The guards come to her cell and take her before the council - before Kane and the others. There is softness in his voice when he tells Clarke that they have sentenced her to banishment. She can never return to Arkadia - if she does, she will be thrown back into her cage and she will _never_ see daylight again.

_They are freeing her._

_They are allowing her to go with Lexa._

_They are allowing her to leave this unnatural place._

She feels her heart swell and her lips twitch into what she thinks may be a smile.

_She is free._

_***_

They leave with hunting knives, a month's worth of supplies and enough charcoal and parchment for Clarke to write and draw on. Her mother has demanded monthly letters when they settle. Lexa wants to be far, far away from Arkadia and far, far away from Polis. Clarke doesn't care where they go, as long as they're together and safe.

They find a secluded grove near a stream and far away from usual scouting routes and patrols. They camp until they can eventually erect something more permanent. They send word to Abby and Murphy visits once a month, collecting letters and trading sarcasm and banter. They hunt, Lexa fishes and Clarke makes the trips to an Outpost to trade for supplies and tools to build with. Lexa never travels with her. The risk is too great.

Over time, they fell trees and build a cabin. Clarke paints on the log walls; paints intricate and flowing murals of the sky, the stars and the forests.

At night, they curl up against each other, entangled in furs.

Some nights, Clarke wakes, screaming and sobbing. She is still terrified that this is a dream - that it will be taken away quickly and cruelly. Lexa holds her tight, her weight solid and comforting against Clarke's back.

Sometimes, Lexa starts awake and clings to Clarke like a lifeline. Clarke runs her hands through her hair until she stops shaking, until the memory of the bullet fades from her mind.

_They sleep entwined._

They live undisturbed. They are free from their people, free from obligation and politics.

There is peace in Clarke's heart.

_She paints._

_She heals._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this. It's been fun to write. 
> 
> If anyone has any concrit, wants to talk clexa or mythology - hit me up on tumblr under jixorpuzzle.


End file.
